Riot Act

Twenty-seven

For a moment I was totally stunned, made too stupid by it to act, but Sean snagged his foot under a shin as it rushed past him, sending the figure sprawling.

“For fuck’s sake, boy,” Sean roared, shining the torch on him. “Just for once in your life will you stop running away from me?”

Roger had been scrabbling away on his hands and knees and it took him a couple of seconds to register the sound of his brother’s voice. His desperation subsided, but the wariness didn’t leave him.

“We’re not with O’Bryan in this, Roger,” I said quickly, moving forwards. “We’ve never been with him.”

Roger recognised me and suddenly it was like something cracked open inside him. The tears overflowed to drip down his cheeks, leaving clear tracks through the dirt.

“I didn’t want to do it,” he said, desperate, anguished. “We had to. He made us.”

“We know, kid,” Sean knelt by the side of him, put his arms round the boy’s shoulders and hugged him fiercely. “We know all about O’Bryan.”

“He said, if we didn’t k-kill Charlie, he’d make sure Ursula went to p-prison,” Roger went on, the words spilling out of him in gulps, even though his face was buried in Sean’s chest, and his voice was muffled. I had to bend closer to hear what he was saying.

“He said they’d give her a rough time inside. He said—” he broke off as a fresh breaker of tears rolled over and smashed, “that he’d make sure she l-lost the baby.”

His thin shoulders shook as he wept for what seemed like a long time. Sean had let the end of the torch dip, so that the beam hit the cellar wall, but in the light reflected back I could see the sorrow in his face, and the anger.

I touched his shoulder, feeling like an unwelcome intruder into their grief.

“We need to move,” I said.

He was still for a moment, then he nodded, gently levering Roger back so he could look into his face.

“Are you ready to get out of here, kid?”

The boy nodded mutely, the fight gone out of him. I led the way up the cellar steps to find that Madeleine was using her Zippo to light the stubs of some old candles she’d found. She gave Roger a big smile, and a hug too, which was pretty brave of her considering how rancid he smelt.

We used the flickering light to strip off the kid’s ragged sweatshirt so we could put him into the body armour we’d brought for him. Roger let us undress him, pliant, like a doll.

He barely made a sound as his sleeve was peeled away and the top of a big scab from a deep abrasion on his forearm came with it. The wound was maybe a couple of days old. It hadn’t been treated, and had started to heal, after a fashion, into the material.

“How did this happen?” Sean asked him.

Roger stared at his arm as if he’d never seen it before. “Oh. That,” he said slowly. He shrugged. “They knocked me off the bike.” His voice was disconnected, as though he was reporting a dull incident that had happened to someone else.

Sean tightened the Velcro straps on the body armour without trusting himself to speak. He fed Roger’s head and arms back into his sweatshirt, trying to keep the oozing arm away from the sleeve.

We were about to move out when the sound of shouting and the clatter of movement outside had us all freezing in our tracks. Sean tiptoed to the back door and disappeared briefly and silently into the yard. He was back a few moments later.

“Is that O’Bryan’s lot?” I demanded in an urgent whisper.

“Not unless he’s learned to speak Gujarati,” he said. “They’re just kids, but I’m not prepared to risk getting into a confrontation. We’ll hold tight until they’ve gone.”

Madeleine produced half a bar of chocolate – from where I’m not entirely sure – and handed it over to Roger. The boy tore at the wrapping and devoured it like he hadn’t eaten for days. The sugar hit seemed to put some animation back into him, some life back behind his eyes.

“What happened to Nasir, Rog?” Sean asked him then.

“O’Bryan shot him,” Roger said tonelessly, licking his fingers when he was done, and the inside of the wrapper, too. “We had to go back and report. You know – after.” His eyes skated over me briefly, then fell away. “Nas said he’d talk to Mr O’Bryan, but I was scared. He’d tried to talk to him before, when Aqueel took—”

He broke off again, aware that he’d said too much, but Sean nodded encouragingly. “We know all about Aqueel and the others breaking into O’Bryan’s car. What did he take?”

“I’m not sure. Nas never showed it to me. He just said he knew it had come from one of the robberies. Said he could use it to get us off the hook, but Mr O’Bryan just laughed at him and said he knew Nas’d been about to make trouble because she’d told him.”

He waved a hand in my direction. There was an accusing note in his voice that I couldn’t deny. After all, I had indeed told O’Bryan about that, too, the first day he’d come to see me.

Guilt walked cold fingers into my chest cavity and clutched at my heart. Again, I remembered Nasir’s outburst that day in the back garden, and realised now why he’d been so vehement.

Roger shrugged and went on. “Anyway, Mr O’Bryan said he couldn’t prove anything. And if Nas did try to stir it he’d make sure we all went down. That’s when he started getting nasty about Ursula.”

“So what happened this time, when Nasir went to talk to O’Bryan after the shooting?”

Roger swallowed, as though the chocolate he’d wolfed was now making him sick. “Mr O’Bryan’s got this barn on the road out to Glasson where he keeps his classic cars. He told Nas to meet him there. I went with him, but Nas told me to wait outside. He was cool with it, you know, thought he could reason with him, get us another chance.”

Another chance.

My God, I thought. They were going to have another go at killing me. As if that first time at the gym wasn’t enough.

“What went wrong?” Sean asked, and I opened my mouth to say, “They missed,” when I realised we were at cross-purposes. I closed it again, and let Roger go on with his story.

“They were ages in there,” he said now, shivering so hard that Sean slipped out of his jacket and put it onto the boy. He had to turn the sleeves up three times before his fingers showed at the end of them. “I wanted to know what they were saying, so I found a little window, round the back, and I looked in. I couldn’t really hear, but Mr O’Bryan was ranting at him, I could tell. Then he just grabbed the gun off Nas and shot him with it.”

His eyes had lost immediate focus, seeing again in his mind’s eye the argument, and the shooting. He must have seen it over and over, bound up in the torment of knowing that nothing he did or said could call it back, or cancel it out, or change the outcome. I’d been locked in a similar little cul-de-sac of hell myself, and I could recognise the signs.

“Nas went down screaming,” Roger whispered. “Even through the glass and the walls I could hear him. And Mr O’Bryan just stood there, and watched him lying on the ground, writhing and screaming.”

He turned his face up to Sean’s, and the candlelight showed that he was crying again. “And then Nas didn’t scream any more. And I ran away. I didn’t help him. I didn’t even try!”

“There wasn’t anything you could have done, Rog,” Sean told him quietly. “If you’d tried, he would have killed you, too.”

Roger wiped his nose on the back of his hand, nodded, but it was a desultory kind of nod. The kind that carries no real conviction. I could see it being a long time before he was going to be able to look in the mirror and not see the face of a coward staring back at him. Some people never managed that leap, never made it back.

Friday had started to pace and whine, making eyes towards the way out as if he was the one wearing a wristwatch. Taking the hint, we checked the back alley and found it was clear. Madeleine snuffed out the candles and we headed for the door.

We’d just gone through it and out into the back yard when the thump and crack of a tremendous explosion rippled through the air like someone had let off a giant petrol bomb in the next street.

Which, in a sense, they had.

We looked upwards, seeing a tongue of flame licking at the clouds over the rooftops of the houses, close by, and heard the patter of fallout on the slates. Some of it landed too close for comfort.

“What the hell was that?” Madeleine demanded.

I glanced at Sean. “At a guess?” I said. “That was the No Claims Bonus on your motor insurance.”

Sean turned, grabbing Roger’s shoulders. “Get out into the rubble and hide,” he told him. “Don’t come out until I come and get you. Understand?”

Roger looked about to argue, as stubborn as his brother, but Sean didn’t have the time or the patience for a long and involved dialogue. “You’re a vital witness, Rog,” he said. “If they get hold of you they’ll kill you and all this will have been for nothing. Go on, get out of here!”

This time Roger did as he was told. We already knew he’d have made a world-class sprinter, given the opportunity. If the way he scaled the nearest pile of shifting stones was anything to go by, he hadn’t lost much of his form.

The rest of us walked round the end of the buildings, carefully skirted the rubble, and were faced with the conflagration that had once been Sean’s Nissan. He gave it a single, regretful glance, and moved on.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Fox,” said a cool voice from the shadows, and three figures stepped forwards into the pagan circle of light from the fire.

Somehow, I knew who they were before I saw their faces clearly.

West was in the centre, with Harlow and Drummond flanking him. Garton-Jones’s men. They advanced with an arrogant confidence that only faltered slightly when they saw the dog.

Friday had started to growl as soon as he’d heard West’s voice, pulling his lips back to emphasise his teeth. Even his neck seemed thicker, his collar going tight around the engorged muscles.

“If you’ve come to burn the boy, you’re too late,” Sean said. “He’s gone.”

“He won’t get far,” West said, almost lazily. He looked at the burning Patrol with the satisfaction of someone admiring their own handiwork. “After all, your transport seems to be out of action. I don’t think the RAC will be able to fix that by the side of the road, will they?”

As if at some unspoken signal, Harlow and Drummond started towards us then, closing in on Madeleine and me. Sean had said that Madeleine wasn’t a field agent, hadn’t had the training, but I just had time to see her let out a dreadful cry and charge forwards to meet Harlow head on. Then my attention was lost in my own problems.

Drummond launched in with a crafty look on his face. We’d crossed swords before and he’d made the mistake of not taking me seriously. This time, his face said, he was more than ready for anything I might throw at him.

Well, almost anything.

“Friday!” I yelled, pointing at Drummond. “Get him!”

I wasn’t sure if Pauline had ever included an attack trigger word in the canine training classes she’d attended with the Ridgeback, but I needn’t have worried that Friday wouldn’t get the right idea.

The dog streaked across the ground between us, his toenails digging up clods as he tore at the earth to gain extra purchase, head low and shoulders hunched.

Drummond hesitated for a moment too long before he started to twist away. With a devious look in his eye, Friday bounded the last few strides, reached up, and with great deliberation clamped his jaws around the fly of the man’s jeans. It was like hearing the lock snapping shut on a prison door and knowing that, without the key, you’re going to have to use Semtex or a gas-axe to get it open again.

Drummond instantly started squealing and battering at Friday’s head and body, although without noticeable effect. The dog just tucked his ears back flat and shut his eyes. His skull was so thick he might as well have been wearing a crash helmet.

Then the pair of them overbalanced, and once the man was on the ground, I knew the Ridgeback had the upper hand. I had no qualms about leaving the two of them scuffling while I went to help Madeleine.

I ran past Sean and West to get to her. The two men were circling each other with their hackles up. Both were on guard, moving with that easy grace that suggested training, and skill. Even injured, I was still confident that Sean could take him.

I kept running.

Harlow had managed to land a couple of hefty punches on the dark-haired girl by the time I reached them, and seemed to be enjoying himself.

I threw myself onto his back in a move Friday would have been proud of, lacing one arm tight round his throat, and the other over his eyes. He just managed to get an elbow back before Madeleine took a run at him and brought her knee up hard. It seemed to be something of her trademark.

I swear I felt two lumps come up into his throat before I let go. I just had time to dismount as the man folded, gasping.

Madeleine and I both turned then to find Sean and West trading blows. Sean was taller and heavier than the other man, and he’d been taught by the nastiest people in the business, but he was still weak from the wound and the blood loss, and it was clear he was already tiring.

Even so, he’d scored a few hits, and for a moment I thought he’d done enough to disorientate West. The smaller man’s aim was off. His punches seemed to be consistently missing Sean’s ducked chin, deflecting off to the side.

Then I saw the determination in his eyes, and the cunning.

My legs had carried me a couple of steps, my mouth opening to shout a warning, when West finally got lucky and landed the blow he’d been planning all along.

He hit Sean, hard, just under the point of his left shoulder. West didn’t bother to keep his guard up after that. He already knew it was a punch that would finish the fight.

Sean went backwards silently, unable to spare the breath even to cry out. He twisted and fell, his whole body shuddering. His eyes were open, but there was only shock in them, and his breathing was quick and shallow. The blood started to well up, passing through the layers of dressing, tracking across the front of his shirt. It glistened in the firelight.

West gave him a savage smile, and moved in for the kill.

A wheaten blur suddenly shot past me and dived into the fray. Friday, bored with the game of ravaging at Drummond, had spotted a new target. His blood was up. His tribal instinct, so long contained beneath the veneer of domestication, had been let loose, and there was no stopping it now.

By the time I saw the knife in West’s hand, it was too late. The dog had already started its run, muscles meshing smoothly under the skin as he powered forwards with a single-minded purpose.

I yelled Friday’s name, but he didn’t hear me. Or if he did, he was too far beyond control to listen and obey.

I saw West’s lips stretch back in a parody of the dog’s grimace as Friday attacked. The man took a couple of quick steps backwards, and for a moment I thought he meant to retreat, but it was just a bluff. He held his left arm out as he started to turn, a red flag that Friday couldn’t resist.

“Friday!” I shouted desperately. “No! Leave him!”

The Ridgeback gathered himself and leapt with perfect co-ordination and timing, clamping his jaws round the man’s exposed forearm just as he reached the crest of his jump. The sheer momentum should have carried West right off his feet.

As it was, the man allowed himself to be spun about, pivoting on his toes to keep his balance. His right arm swung round towards the dog’s body, the blade flashing in the dull light.

I’ll never forget the scream that Friday gave out as the knife went in. It was horrible, and oddly human. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a noise like it, and I pray that I never will again.

West stabbed him hard enough to sink the blade into the dog’s flank right up to the hilt. Even so, Friday wouldn’t give up his grip without a fight. He hung on bravely, taking two quick, nasty blows about the head before he let go at last and dropped, bleeding, to the stony ground.

I was moving forwards before the Ridgeback had hit the deck. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him struggling gamely to rise. This time it was Madeleine who called my name, told me to stop. Her voice was high with alarm.

I paid no more attention to her warnings than Friday had done to mine. I just had to hope that the end result wouldn’t be the same.

West grinned as he jumped away from the dog, waving the knife that ran crimson with his blood in front of me. Seeking to taunt. All it did was brace my courage.

As I closed on him, he tried a couple of swift slashes to test my reflexes, didn’t seem worried that they failed to connect. He was high on confidence, the conviction of his own invincibility running through him like fire.

He came at me with the knife held underarm, aiming to drive it upwards into my body, to slit me open from stomach to breastbone like a snared rabbit.

On the upstroke, I grabbed the top of his wrist tight with both hands outstretched, thumbs overlapping to form a vee. I made no attempt to wrestle the knife from his grasp, which would have been stupid, and probably lethal.

Instead I used the force of his own charge to swing his arm up and out to the side. Still holding his wrist I stepped inside it, underneath it, turning my back into West’s body as I did so, as though we were partners in some deadly form of old-time dancing.

Our arms reached the top of their arc and gathered speed on the way down. I had control now, using his own size and weight against him. I tightened my fingers around his hand, then, still wrapped firmly in his own fist, I plunged the knife down and sank it into West’s right leg at the top of his thigh.

I felt the blade go in, tugging and tearing. It glanced off the bone, then settled deep into flesh. West howled much less convincingly than Friday had done, and I was aware of a fierce blast of grim satisfaction. It left a dark and bitter taste in my mouth.

By the time I turned to face him, West was on the ground, writhing. Both hands were clamped round the handle of the knife, which was all I could see protruding from his leg. Blood was welling from the wound in gushing spurts like a burst water main coming up through clay.

Numbly, I left him there and stumbled over to kneel by Friday’s body. The dog lifted his head as I reached him, and begged me with those big expressive eyes to make his pain go away. There was a trickle of blood coming out of his nose, and his sides rose and fell shallowly, as though he was afraid to breathe. The sight of him stung my eyes with tears.

Madeleine had helped Sean to his feet. He moved across, producing from the side pocket of his trousers the sling he’d discarded earlier. He thrust it into my hand as he came past.

“Here, stop the bleeding with this and watch he doesn’t bite you,” he said. He still looked pale. “You OK?”

I nodded, and he carried on, bending over West.

Loudly, with expletives, West was demanding a doctor, and an ambulance. He’d pulled out a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and was clumsily trying to knot that round his thigh. Sean eyed him coldly, and made no moves to help.

Then, after a few moments he reached down and took hold of the knife’s greasy handle.

West’s body jerked at the touch. “No, no!” he shouted. “Let them do it at the hospital. Don’t move it. I’ll bleed to death.”

Sean cocked an eyebrow at that less-than-convincing argument, and hauled the knife straight out of the wound with a vicious jerk. West bucked and twisted, swearing.

“You didn’t think,” Sean demanded quietly, “that I was going to leave you with a concealed weapon, did you, you sick fucker?”

West stopped thrashing about long enough to spit at him. Sean leaned closer, ignoring the splatter of phlegm that landed near his feet.

“Did you know that you can pick up virulent infections from dogs’ blood?” he lied conversationally, then turned on his heel and walked away, with the polluted knife still dangling from his fingers.

Sean moved back to where Madeleine and I were trying to patch up Friday’s wound. He held the knife out towards me without speaking, and for a moment I didn’t understand what he was showing me.

It was just a knife. A combat knife with a long serrated blade and a camouflage-coloured plastic non-slip handle. Then I suddenly realised where I’d seen it before.

Well, maybe not that particular knife, but one very much like it.

In fact, I hadn’t seen the blade. That had been buried deep in Harvey Langford’s chest, but the rest was identical.

I didn’t have time to react to the discovery, though, because it very quickly became apparent we weren’t alone any more. That the burning Patrol had served as a beacon for trouble.

Madeleine and Sean turned a slow circle, staring out beyond the area lit by the flames. I came to my feet, also, aware of a tightening in my chest, a drumming in my ears.

Slowly, gradually, there came the slip and slither of feet approaching across the rubble from all sides until at last more than a dozen men took shape out of the darkness, and formed a semicircular perimeter in front of us.

A final figure appeared, and they parted to let him through. Ian Garton-Jones looked much as he had done at our last meeting, shaven-headed and dressed in black. There was one notable exception, however.

This time, he was carrying a double-barrelled shotgun, and he was pointing it unswervingly in our direction.